


Concussion

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Greg is tired, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft is kind, and has no inhibitions, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: When Greg is hurt, knackered, woozy and stranded at the hospital, it's a good thing Mycroft Holmes is there to pick him up and drive him home.One of the longer ficlets that I first posted on Tumblr.





	Concussion

“Cheers.” Greg’s smile falls away as the nurse leaves the consulting room. He takes a breath, and tests the rapidly-swelling lump on the side of his head. A sharp half-gasp as he touches a place, through the gauze, that hurts more than he’d expected.

He sighs and stands up, slowly pulling on his coat. His arms, shoulders and back ache. His legs are tired from running.

_Bed. God. Home, bed, tomorrow_ _–_ _well. Tomorrow, paperwork._ His head aches at the thought.

Slowly, he makes his way towards the exit, raising a hand and summoning a cheery grin on the way for the nurse who’d patched him up. His head really is throbbing, now. God knows when he last ate, but he’d had a cup of tea a few hours ago – right? And then it all kicked off – and since then, he’s not had a minute to himself.

It’s alright. Plenty of time to himself when he gets home.

Sometimes, the silence of his small flat is perfect, after a long day at work. Tonight, though – there won’t be anyone _there._ There to look after him, to be concerned about his injury, to make him a cup of tea and some dinner.

_Self-pitying bastard._ His shoes squeak on the harshly blue wipe-clean floor of the hospital corridor. The sliding doors at the exit are slow to open. He stands for a moment in the cold night air, and then wraps his fingers around his phone in his coat pocket. _Taxi._ Best not to drive, the nurse said. _Though fuck knows where I left the car, anyway._ The screen of his phone doesn’t seem to make much sense to him. He turns it over in his hand, the cold back satisfying against his palm. _Fuck, I hope I’ve not got brain damage. Call a taxi, you twat._

“I – hope I am not intruding, Detective Inspector.”

Greg looks up, startled. Mycroft Holmes is impeccable as ever, smart navy coat cut beautifully, black-gloved hands folded on the handle of his umbrella. Greg has learned, over the years, to read the tells of diffidence in the man: his additional aloofness of manner, his ramrod posture, and the way he seems to look down his nose.

It used to put Greg’s back up. For a while, now, he’s seen it for what it is: armour against the world, against the disappointments and dissatisfactions of interacting with other people. It’s the quieter version of Sherlock’s vicious, tongue-lashing attacks on the stupidities and failings of others.

It makes Greg want to _protect._

“Nah,” he sighs. “I was just –” he holds up his phone. “Gonna call a taxi. Sherlock and John alright?”

Mycroft gives a terse nod. “They have just taken a taxi of their own.” His fingers flex on the handle of his umbrella. When he speaks, it is a little more quickly than usual. “Since they have no need of it, I wondered if you might accept a lift home.”

Normally, Greg would argue. Tonight, head throbbing, weary to the bone, he sighs and says, “yeah. Thanks.”

There is a half-moment of hesitation _(he thought I’d argue,_ thinks Greg, with a twinge of guilt) and then Mycroft turns. They walk down the concrete ramp from the hospital, to where a black sedan with tinted windows idles in the drop-off bay. Mycroft crosses to the other side of the car. Greg climbs in, and watches Mycroft folding his long, elegant legs into the back seat.

_Don’t start that bollocks again, Greg Lestrade. We’ve had words about this, haven’t we?_ He turns his head away, and watches as the car pulls off, winding its way out of the hospital car park, through pools of yellowed street light.

“It looks somewhat painful,” says Mycroft, after a few minutes of silence.

Greg, hypnotised by tiredness and by the looping pattern of street lights, turns to look at him. “Mmm? Sorry?”

“Your head wound.”

“Oh – not sure it really counts as a ‘head wound’,” says Greg, with a lopsided attempt at a smile.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitches, drily amused. Greg feels the usual leap of surprise and – _be honest_ – pride. He so rarely sees Mycroft Holmes smile, _really_ smile, as opposed to giving that snakelike grimace in the face of Sherlock’s defiance or competition. “Your head is bandaged, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft, quietly. “That counts.”

Greg lets his head fall back against the seat behind him, and gives a small, acknowledging _huff_ of amusement. “Yeah. I guess.” His gaze wanders back to the window. They’re a few streets away from his flat. He suppresses a sigh. _Nearly home. Tea. Bed. Too tired for dinner. Fuck it._ “Your driver knows the way?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“’Course,” says Greg, with a half-smile. He flicks his gaze to Mycroft’s, and receives an amused glance in return. “Stupid question,” adds Greg. He could fall asleep right here. His eyelids feel heavy.

“Did the doctor check for concussion?” asks Mycroft, and his voice seems somehow far away.

“Nurse,” says Greg.

“And did they check for concussion?” prompts Mycroft.

“Yeah. Yeah, think so.”

There’s a rather full little silence. “I see,” says Mycroft.

The car draws up in front of Greg’s house.

“Thanks,” says Greg. He needs to make himself get up. _Unstrap the seatbelt, open the door, move all those muscles and get out of the car. In a minute. Now._ “Cheers,” he says, as he makes himself move. “Appreciate it.”

Only when he’s standing at the front door, searching his pockets for his keys, does he realise that Mycroft has followed him from the car – is standing, umbrellaless, a few steps away.

“Are you quite alright, Detective Inspector?”

“Yeah – yeah, alright – just can’t find my key, but it’ll be here somewhere. Ah – there we go.” He finds it in his inside coat pocket. _How did it end up there?_ “Thanks,” he says, a bit awkwardly. “For the lift. Don’t worry about this, I’m good.” He gives Mycroft a quick flash of the cheery smile he’d used on the nurse.

The key in his hand feels rather unfamiliar. He’s not quite sure what to do with it next.

Mycroft Holmes holds out a black-gloved hand, and clearly the sensible thing – the _only_ sensible thing – is to do what Greg does, and place the key into it.

When the door’s open, Greg steps inside, turning on the hall light, pushing off his shoes. Mycroft hesitates, not leaving, but clearly unsure.

“C’m’in for a minute?” asks Greg. “I feel a bit – weird, actually.”

Mycroft closes the door very quietly behind himself. “I am concerned you may have concussion.”

Greg doesn’t answer. The sum total of his thoughts are: _sofa. Sit._ He does, sinking back and letting his head fall onto the cushions. It pounds, tightly.

He hears Mycroft cross into the kitchen area, and put the kettle on. The noise isn’t pleasant, but he hopes there might be tea.

In front of him, he feels the air change, and then Mycroft’s voice is quiet, but firm. “Detective Inspector.” He is clearly crouching in front of the sofa. It would mean sitting up – opening his eyes – “Lestrade,” says Mycroft, more sharply, and Greg forces himself to focus, to sit forward.

“Yes,” he says, a little absently.

“You are having trouble focusing,” says Mycroft, calmly. Nonetheless, signs of worry are there: his brows are drawn a little together. His lips are tight. _I notice these things, about you,_ thinks Greg. _Sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I do, and I can’t stop._

“Do you feel nauseous?” asks Mycroft.

Slowly, Greg checks, explores. “No.”

“Is your vision blurry?”

_There are darker grey flecks in your eyes,_ thinks Greg. _I never got a chance to see that before._ “No,” he says. And it’s not far, to lean forward and kiss him, so he does.

It’s warm, and soft, and chaste, and the smell of Mycroft – a hint of cologne, the expensive wool of his coat, still on, even inside – is intoxicating, even more so than usual –

Mycroft pulls back, jerky with shock, eyes wide. “Lestrade –”

Greg can’t find concern, somehow. _Come back,_ is all his brain says. _That was good. I want it to still be good. Warm and soft_ – _I need that. I need you._ He’s not sure, but he thinks perhaps he’s smiling.

It’s the first time he’s seen Mycroft speechless.

_Oh._

_Oh dear._

“Don’t freak out,” he says.

Mycroft takes a breath, seems to find some reserve of calm, and raises one eyebrow. “You need to go to hospital. I am quite certain you have concussion. The nurse who examined you has much to answer for.”

Greg shakes his head, then regrets it when the stab of pain comes. “Ow. No. What, because I kissed you? I just need a cup of tea.”

Mycroft’s lips form a tight line. “When did you last eat or drink?”

Greg makes a _pfff_ noise, hand in his hair. “Not sure.”

Mycroft stands up. As he makes tea, his shoulders are tight and high.

Greg can’t summon enough energy to worry. _It’s okay. I’ll make him understand. Somehow._

From somewhere, Mycroft has found a packet of Digestives, to go with the tea. He places the mug in Greg’s hand, and holds the packet out, biscuit pushed up ready for Greg to take.

It all tastes like heaven on Greg’s tongue, exploding with flavour and satisfaction. He groans, voice rough, and slowly finishes his tea.

Mycroft takes a seat, primly upright, on the sofa next to him.

“God. I needed that,” Greg mumbles, as he leans forward to put the mug down on the coffee table. “Where’re those biscuits?”

He eats two more, holding the packet out to Mycroft, who declines.

“’M sorry,” says Greg, eventually. “About before.”

Mycroft shakes his head, once. “Do not mention it.”

“Come out with me. On Friday.”

There is a short, deadly silence. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I’m so knackered now I’m prob’ly hallucinating or something, but by Friday I’ll’ve slept it off.” Greg watches the blank expression that serves for total astonishment, with Mycroft. “Come out for dinner with me. Or – whatever it is you like doing. Come for dinner here.”

Mycroft blinks, several times. “As a –”

“Date,” says Greg, baldly. “I didn’t kiss you because I’ve got concussion, Mycroft. I did it because I’ve wanted to for ages and I’ve got no inhibitions right now ’cause I’m so tired I can’t think.”

Mycroft, expression shuttered, does not speak.

Greg turns on the sofa, left leg tucked up, and puts his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Stop me,” he says, and slowly, so slowly, he leans in.

When they’re close – a few breaths away – he puts his hand over Mycroft’s heart. “I’ll stop,” he promises, eyes locked on Mycroft’s deep grey ones. “If you want me to.”

Mycroft’s gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, and Greg leans forward, the last few inches. His heart feels as though it will beat out of his chest, but _warm and soft,_ and Mycroft takes his bottom lip delicately between his teeth – _not quite so chaste, this time_ –

When they pull apart, an exquisite flush tinges Mycroft’s pale cheeks. His eyes are bright, and deep.

“Friday,” says Greg, and it’s not a question.

“Yes,” answers Mycroft.


End file.
